The Chicken Bone
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: Lestrade has an interesting case for Sherlock and John: female, mid-seventies, found dead in a wood oven, in a garish looking cottage, in the middle of the woods. A retelling of a fairy tale for the Let's Write Sherlock Challenge: 2.


Title: The Chicken Bone

Author: Mildredandbobbin

Fairy Tale: Hansel and Gretel

Summary: Lestrade has an interesting case for Sherlock and John: female, mid-seventies, found dead in a wood oven, in a garish looking cottage, in the middle of the woods.

Rating: T

Length: 1625

Warnings: cannibalism, child abduction, child neglect, child abandonment

Author notes: Thank you to Aranel Parmadil for the super efficient beta-read! (Now I really must stop writing for the rest of the week!). I'm taking a few liberties with this story, assuming there's some woodlands in Lestrade's division, for one.

Written for the Let's Write Sherlock: Challenge 2:_ Choose a favorite fairy tale and rewrite it with characters from Sherlock._

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**The Chicken Bone (Based on Hansel and Gretel)**

"Here we are," says the young police constable, entering a half-hidden driveway off a side track in the middle of the woods. He drives along the overgrown driveway for another minute before they see the house. It rises up among the oaks and pines, a garish monstrosity of pink and white stripes, topped with a sickly green pastel trim that reminds John of spearmint.

"It looks like a sodding gingerbread house," John says.

Sherlock glances at him, eyebrow raised.

"You know, those houses people make at Christmas, out of gingerbread, decorated with sweets."

Sherlock grunts. He ignores most holiday traditions, John isn't surprised about this one.

"Come on then," says the constable eagerly. "You'll like this one, it's really weird."

Lestrade meets them at the door. "John, Sherlock," he says in greeting. "This one's a real doozy."

Lestrade leads them into the cottage. John stares at the front room. It's like a fucking toy shop, and a bit creepy actually. China dolls and marionette puppets stare at him, ancient stuffed toys (the nearly hairless kind with the creepy glass eyes) loom in all the corners, a toy train track runs around the entire edge of the room over shelves and under furniture. John shudders a bit at the wind-up monkey doll and follows Lestrade and Sherlock through to the kitchen. This room is wallpapered with peeling rose-patterned paper, yellowing curtains grace dusty windows. The few shelves strain with old china, souvenir plates of the royal family, cups from the seaside, silly-looking toothpick holders, the sort of thing John's nan used to collect.

Anderson and other members of the forensics team are there, fussing around an old-fashioned wooden stove.

"Anderson, would you mind?" says Lestrade.

Anderson rolls his eyes. "I've got to get these samples to the lab-"

"Out, Anderson, now," snaps Sherlock.

"Just do it would you?" Lestrade sighs wearily. "Body's there," he says, pointing at the stove.

As Anderson and team leave via the kitchen door, Sherlock bounds over to the stove. He examines the body still curled up inside the stove's oven. Limbs blackened, the skin charred off.

"What do you make of it?" Lestrade says.

"Female, mid-seventies...caucasian. Burnt alive - she's on her hands and knees, face first into the oven, her limbs indicate she has been struggling. The door was shut when you found her? Latched?"

Lestrade nodded. "Yes- we got an anonymous tip off."

Sherlock straightened and looked around the kitchen. "This is her home. She was losing her sight, going blind. The benches, the table, all the walls, all have dark marks along them, the kind of smears that come with someone who is hard of sight, feeling their way along the wall repeatedly, over time. "

Sherlock steps away from the body and scans the room.

"Oh..." he says.

"What?"

"John - what are your thoughts on that?" Sherlock asks, pointing at a large wicker basket in the corner. John looks at it. It suddenly seems very odd.

"It's too big for a bird cage," he says, walking over to it. "But it's obviously a cage - it's got a gate on it. Decorative? No, huh, one of those drink bottles they use for rats and mice and that. It's got food scraps in it. Chicken bones by the look. Dog maybe? I thought you weren't supposed to give dogs chicken bones?"

"It's not for a dog," Sherlock says.

"Figured it out yet, Freak?"

John turns to see Sergeant Donovan leaning against the door frame. "Bit sad," she says. "Poor old woman. What kind of sicko sticks an old lady in a wood stove?"

Sherlock's lips quirk up on one side. "What you should be asking, Sergeant Donovan, is what kind of 'sicko' keeps small children in a cage and then cooks them alive?"

Donovan pales. "What?"

"Use your eyes! The oven has been specially altered," he indicates some welding marks, "to enlarge it. Furthermore the inside racks have been removed. No standard wood stove of this type would hold a 70 year old, and certainly not a struggling one. Why would you need an industrial size oven in a cottage in the middle of nowhere? This is not a farmhouse, there are no livestock that may need to be roasted." He swings around and strides over to the wicker basket. "And here we have a cage. What can it be for? A dog, a cat? Dogs don't normally drink out of bottles. Who keeps a dog in a wicker cage? A cat? There are no bite marks on the wicker, no scratch marks." He picks up a chicken bone and holds it aloft. "Not gnawed, picked clean. And there- something has undone one of the gate hinges. Neatly picked. Trying to escape. It's a small cage, too big for a bird, but it's large enough to hold a small child, no older than six or seven. Look around you - a cottage, designed to look like a gingerbread house, with a front room full of toys. Why? There aren't any photos of grandchildren, or any children for that matter. It's a trap, a lure. There's no internet connection, no satellite, no power, it's not child exploitation. The oven is the clue. On the table; a large baking pan, a butcher's knife. Why would she need a butcher's knife? There's no freezer, no place to store a large side of beef. Lestrade, get a cadaver dog team in the back yard. I'll guarantee you'll find corpses. Small ones."

"But what happened to the old woman? You're saying she's a cannibal?"

"Obviously." Sherlock looks around again and suddenly something sparks and he grins at John. "Oh...very clever. Clever little girl." He waves the chicken bone. "The old woman was going blind. The floor is swept, however, the dishes done. Someone has done this for her. But only the bottom shelf of each cupboard is dusted. Children can't reach very high. She put the children to work, cleaning, kept them in the cage in between, fattening them up. She checked their growth, squeezed their fingers to see if they were plump enough. The latest victims - two children, most likely girls, there's a small sequin here on the floor of the cage, fooled her for a long time by giving her this chicken bone instead. It was left on the floor just outside the cage, it's old, dry. The children would normally have cleaned up any scraps after their meals. Not the chicken bone, this they kept.

"So, the old woman feeds the children. Maybe she gets tired of waiting, maybe she discovers the chicken bone trick, but when they are fat enough she heats up the oven. She tells the child to lean in, see if it's hot enough. The child isn't stupid, she pretends she doesn't understand. The old woman grows exasperated, demonstrates, whereupon the girl shoves her in the oven and slams the door shut. The old woman dies, the children escape. Poetic justice."

Donovan suddenly gasps, her hand flying to her lips. "Sir, there were those two kids that went missing in the woods recently- came home of their own accord, remember, it was all over the news when they disappeared? Their father was German, stepmother was a right cow, was on the news blaming the police for not doing enough. Then the kids showed up, runaways. Didn't hear another peep about them."

Lestrade shoots her a glance. "Get a team over to their house. Get child protection there too."

Donovan nods and disappears into the front room.

"That's...pretty bloody marvellous," says John, looking at Sherlock in amazement.

"Pretty bloody sick. Shit," curses Lestrade, shaking his head. "If you're right, shit." He already has his phone in hand and he turns away to call in the cadaver dogs.

"Of course I'm right," says Sherlock, looking at John. He is beaming with self-satisfaction.

John shakes his head. "Brilliant, as usual."

Sherlock waggles his eyebrows. "Come along John," he says and sweeps out the door.

Later that afternoon, when they're back at Baker Street and John is resolutely not eating any meat products for the foreseeable future, Lestrade calls.

"Tell that genius fucking boyfriend of yours that he was right. Twelve bodies have turned up in the vegetable garden so far. The kids admitted to what happened, Sherlock was spot on. But get this - turns out their father took them out into the woods and left them there. He blames the stepmother of course but what kind of prick does that, then uses their disappearance to claim donations? Kids found the old woman's house and, well, Sherlock's told you the rest. She told the kids she'd been 'collecting children' for years. Creepy as fuck. Well. Nice and neat anyway in some respects. No messy court case. Kids have been taken into care though, will be needing professional help for a while I think."

John shuddered as he disconnects the call and tosses the phone to Sherlock. Sherlock is looking up at him from his chair.

"You were right," John says and fills Sherlock in on what Lestrade has told him. He rubs the back of his neck as he finishes, still unsettled. "I'm fairly certain I'm going to have nightmares tonight. Mind if I sleep in yours?"

Sherlock smiles his usual half smile and springs to his feet, tossing his phone in the air and catching it. "You're always welcome, John. Lestrade called me your boyfriend again, didn't he?"

John laughs, the tension from the case dissipating. "It's getting so I'm starting to believe it."

Sherlock smirks and tucks his phone in his pocket. "You always are incredibly slow on the uptake, John Watson," he says.

The End.


End file.
